The Fallen One

Sia stood outside Lucius's door, her fingers curled into tense fists. Her mind warred with itself, a storm of emotions churning beneath the surface. Her heart had chosen Lucius the moment she laid eyes on him. Her logic… had not... She exhaled slowly. "Here goes nothing…"

She rapped her knuckles against the door. No response. Another knock—firmer this time. Silence. By the third set of knocks, which were more like heavy thuds shaking the foundation of his small room, the door finally creaked open. Lucius stood there, half-asleep, his hair a mess, blinking against the dim light of the hallway.

Sia stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. She took a seat on the edge of his bed, avoiding his gaze. The mattress barely dipped under her weight, yet the room suddenly felt suffocating. "We need to talk." Her voice was calm. Lucius yawned, rubbing his eyes. "Right now? In the middle of the night? What's the—"

His words cut short the moment he noticed something was off. Sia… was nervous.

A heavy silence stretched between them. She took a measured breath, steadying herself. This is for our family. The thought barely reassured her. Finally, she met his confused gaze. "Tomorrow morning, my husband returns." Lucius frowned. "So?"

"He doesn't know about you." That made him straighten up. "He won't be expecting a new addition all of a sudden. There's a chance he might not accept you. It's unlikely—but I can't rule it out."

The words barely left her lips before she saw the shift in him. His body went rigid. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven. Sia reached for him instinctively, pulling him down to sit beside her, closing the space between them. A sharp inhale. A tremor in his hands. His core—wild, unstable, surging.

"Lucius—" She didn't get to finish. He wasn't hearing her anymore.

His little body betrayed him. His hands shook violently. His breathing came in quick, sharp bursts. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, his mana fluctuating erratically, spiralling out of control. Sia's eyes widened. A panic attack.

"Lucius, breathe." She placed her hands on his shoulders, steadying him. His head hung low, strands of dark hair covering his eyes. His fingers curled into his palms, knuckles pale.

"You're not going anywhere." Her voice was firm, unyielding, but he was already lost in the spiral. "Please," he slowly gasped.

"I'll do anything. Just don't send me away." His words spilt out—raw, desperate. His entire body shook. His mana core fluctuated so wildly that even she could feel the unstable pulses rolling off him. Then came the pleas. Promises. Bargains.

"I'll serve you. I'll clean, I'll be obedient. Just—please—" His breath hitched, and he clutched onto her sleeves like a lifeline, his knuckles digging into the fabric.

Sia's chest tightened painfully. This was beyond fear. This was terror. It wasn't logical. It wasn't reasonable. It was primal. A deep, aching wound—one that no amount of maturity or intelligence could shield him from. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. "Enough, Lucius."

He trembled against her. "You're not going anywhere." She repeated it over and over, whispering reassurances, steadying his erratic core with her own controlled presence. Time blurred as seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours. It took an hour, an entire hour, for his body to stop trembling, for his breathing to even out, for his heart rate to slow.

By then, he was asleep. Silent, but not at peace. Tear streaks stained his cheeks, his expression twisted even in slumber. Sia pulled a blanket over him, tucking him in with careful hands. And then, she sat there, watching him. Thinking. Processing.

She had known abandonment was a wound he carried, but not like this. Not like this. His reaction was too extreme. Too visceral. Too deep-seated for someone with no memory of their past. Unless… Does his body remember something his mind doesn't?

The thought sent a chill down her back.

Lucius had moments—flickers—where he recalled details he shouldn't have known. Tiny pieces of knowledge slipping through the cracks of his supposed amnesia. Had he noticed it yet? Likely not, but Sia had. Her suspicion wasn't just a theory anymore.

She sighed, rising to her feet. Carefully, she stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Her head throbbed. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. She found herself back in the living room, sinking into her chair. The cold night air seeped through the cracks, sending a shiver down her entire body.

'Tomorrow was going to be a long day...' She reached for her drink, swirling the liquid absentmindedly before taking a slow sip.

"To a better tomorrow," she muttered under her breath. And top it whole in...

***

The morning air was crisp, tinged with the lingering chill of dawn. Lucius stood in the courtyard, his body drenched in sweat, his wooden sword gripped tightly in his hands. He was alone, refining the foundational sword techniques Sia had drilled into him a week ago. The movements were simple, but simplicity meant nothing if it wasn't perfect.

SWOOSH. SWOOSH. SWOOSH.

Each swing cut through the air with greater speed, greater precision. His arms burned. His vision blurred at the edges. His breathing grew uneven, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Last night had been a brutal reminder—acceptance had to be earned. If he wanted to win over Sia's husband, he had to be his best self.

With one final, exhausted arc of his sword, his grip failed. The wooden blade slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the stone floor. Lucius fell back, landing on the ground with a thud.

His entire body screamed in protest, but he knew better than to push further. Training was vital, but recovery was just as important.

He adjusted himself into a cross-legged meditation stance, hands resting lightly on his knees. To absorb mana, one needed three things: a calm mind, a relaxed body, and a focused soul.

Lucius exhaled slowly; except for him, mana never felt like the gift Sia claimed it to be... It felt like a burden.

No matter how much he trained, his connection to mana was different—abnormal. The energy flowed into him too easily, almost forcefully, as if he were a vessel it desperately wanted to fill. Still, he tried, until A voice—deep, resonant, unshakable—broke the silence.

"You don't have to try that hard, young one. Relax, and let the essence perform its wonder."

The presence behind the voice carried authority—not the kind that demanded obedience, but the kind that inspired it. Lucius should have been startled, but he wasn't. Instead, his body instinctively obeyed. His mind eased. His shoulders loosened. His breathing fell into a steady rhythm.

He softly opened his eyes, to witness... And there he was, a giant of a man, sitting before him, clad in a battle-worn suit of golden armor, stained with dried-up blood. Broad. Muscular. Unshaken.

His head was shaved clean, save for a single long scar running up the side of his skull. His fierce, dark eyes and sharp eyebrows gave him the look of a warlord, yet the slight smile on his lips softened the edge. Lucius didn't need to ask; he knew who this was.

Rartar Machangel, Sia's husband and a saint.

"That's better," Rartar nodded, as if pleased by Lucius's adjustment. "You have a good relationship with mana. It flows into you without resistance—without the effort the rest of us have to exert." Lucius blinked, momentarily distracted by the sheer power in the man's voice. Even when speaking casually, it commanded attention.

"Do me a favour and continue like this," Rartar added. "It will benefit you." Lucius straightened his posture. "I will. Thank you for your guidance, Lord Rartar." The man raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised that Lucius knew his name. Not personally, of course. But he was a Machangel. A warrior of legend.

Rartar didn't respond immediately. Instead, his gaze flicked toward something else. Lucius followed his line of sight to the wooden sword lying discarded on the ground. "That weapon of yours." His voice, though still steady, held a different weight now. A demanding tone. "My wife crafted it for you, didn't she?"

The moment he spoke, Lucius felt it. A subtle but undeniable shift in the air. Mana laced into his words. A test. A probe. A show of strength.

Lucius's body instinctively tensed. But he didn't falter. "Yes sir!" he answered evenly. "My master crafted it for my training."

Rartar studied him for a long moment before rising to his full height. Lucius had never considered Sia a small woman—she carried herself with a warrior's presence. But Rartar?

He was a mountain; easily 6'4", built like an unmovable force of nature. And beside him, resting against the earth, was his weapon, a colossal warhammer. The handle alone was nearly half his size, and the striking head? It was almost as big as Lucius himself. Rartar grabbed the hammer effortlessly, hoisting it with one hand and carrying it to the only fully grown tree in the courtyard. Lucius had a feeling—a powerful feeling—that he was about to witness something.

***

"He should have woken me up."

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Sia rarely overslept, but after the weight of last night—an event she refused to let her mind fully revisit—she had remained dead to the world. Even now, groggy and slow, her body protested the act of rising. Yet something in the air dragged her out of bed: presence. Not just one. Two. And one of them unmistakably belonged to Rartar. Her heart clenched. 'He's with Lucius!'

The fog vanished in an instant. She threw on her clothes in a blur and rushed down the stairs. What greeted her as she reached the hall was enough to stop her breath. The sliding windows had been opened, letting in the golden stretch of morning light across the stone floor—and there, in the courtyard, Rartar and Lucius moved in tandem. Or rather, in conflict. They were sparring. Rartar stood barehanded, relaxed yet unreadable, evading every strike with the ease.

Lucius, in contrast, fought with desperation. Each attack was thrown with full force, but his balance wavered, his footing staggered. And what stunned her most, he wielded a real dagger. Not the dulled training weapons she'd approved. A real blade. Her jaw tightened. He wasn't ready for this. His swings were too wide, his recovery too slow. It was clear Rartar had forced this on him. Her gaze flicked to the base of the old tree they had planted together—the Warhammer, Shatterhorn lay resting against its roots. This wasn't about combat. This was about pressure. About testing control. Sia's trained eyes followed their footwork, their timing, their weight shifts—and within seconds, she understood the rules. Lucius didn't have to land a hit. He just had to force Rartar to defend.

It was a fool's goal. She knew that better than anyone. Lucius pushed past the limits of exhaustion, his body screaming with every motion, his mana visibly unravelling in thin pulses that trailed his limbs. He fought like someone with something to prove—and something to protect. But it wasn't enough. Not yet. Maybe not for the next thirty-five years. And then it happened. With one final surge forward, Lucius collapsed. His body crumpled to the stone like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Rartar stood over him, unmoved, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Then something subtle shifted in the corner of his mouth. A smile—not indulgent, not mocking—but faint and earned.

"Rartar," Sia called out, stepping into the light.

Lucius heard her voice, distant and muffled through the ringing in his ears, as he lay sprawled across the ground. He didn't need to see to know what happened next. In a blink, Rartar disappeared from his sight, only to reappear in front of Sia—his arms sweeping her into a sudden, crushing embrace. She let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh, and for a moment, Lucius averted his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cool stone beneath him. He gave them their space. They deserved it. When he finally pushed himself upright, wincing at the fire spreading through his back and shoulders, Rartar had already returned to his side.

"Come here," the man said, voice low and commanding. Lucius stood with difficulty, every limb aching, but he obeyed. The giant of a man studied him in silence for a long, dragging moment. Then his voice came again—measured, steady, but layered with weight.

"We have a lot to talk about. And I assume this is your priority as well." Lucius didn't hesitate. He nodded. There was no hiding from this.

"Word travels fast, you know." That made his spine stiffen.

"I want to hear exactly what happened that day," Rartar said, glancing toward Sia, then back at him. "From both of you."

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a summons—one that did not tolerate avoidance or fabrication. Sia, catching the tone, offered a quiet excuse to leave. "I'll join after you've eaten." Tactical retreat. Lucius recognised it. She trusted Rartar's read more than her own in moments like this. She was right to.

They sat at the table in silence, the hum of the kitchen filling the space between them as the scent of spiced gravy and warm bread wafted in from the other room. Lucius swallowed once, bracing himself, and began to speak. He told the truth. Every detail. Even the parts that painted him as foolish, unprepared, or emotional. It wasn't easy. At times, he felt like he was handing pieces of himself over to be judged, but Rartar didn't interrupt often. And when he did, his questions were piercing. Surgical. Each one aimed not to trap, but to test. To reveal the heart of Lucius's convictions. Honesty. Accountability. Resolve. He was measuring them all.

Half an hour passed before Sia returned, her presence like a warm breeze in the heavy air. Rartar finally leaned back, eyes still on Lucius.

"Enough for now. We'll continue after lunch." Lucius exhaled, the pressure in his shoulders finally breaking—but the moment he reached for the glass of water beside him, Rartar's voice cut across again.

"No talking while eating. Got it?" Lucius almost groaned aloud. Of course. "Yes, yes, I remember. You hate that." Rartar smirked slightly but said nothing. The atmosphere didn't lighten, but it shifted. Slightly.

Lucius helped set the table while Sia ladled food into serving bowls. As they arranged the cutlery and plates, she gestured for him to sit—but instead, Lucius circled around to Rartar's seat. Quietly, he pulled the chair out. Not for himself. For her. A silent gesture of respect, of gratitude. Rartar raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Lucius took his place.

Lunch was simple—thick gravy of something delicious poured over fresh rice, soft rotis stacked on a clay plate, and a crisp salad with lemon and spices. Lucius didn't bother with cutlery. He preferred eating with his hands—it felt more satisfying, more grounded. Rartar and Sia ate at their own pace, familiar in their rhythm. Occasionally, they fed each other in those small, unspoken gestures that passed between two people long bonded. Lucius kept his eyes trained on his plate and didn't interrupt. He had earned his place at the table, but he knew it wasn't his story yet.

***

In the courtyard nestled behind the Machangel home, all was quiet, save for the rhythmic scuff of boots on stone. Lucius stood near the trimmed hedges, his task completed, a small pile of discarded leaves swept into a corner behind him. Sweat clung to his neck and back, cooling rapidly now that he'd stopped moving. His hands, dusted with dirt, curled into fists at his sides—not from tension, but from resolve. He turned slowly, gaze landing on the man seated beneath the garden's arched pergola—a quiet corner framed by aged whitewood and vines that swayed with the breeze.

Rartar Machangel sat comfortably on the stone bench, a low table beside him bearing a half-finished bowl of sliced fruit. The man appeared utterly at ease, legs crossed, one broad hand resting against his jaw as he gazed toward the dimming sky. He hadn't touched his weapon all evening. The warhammer—Shatterhorn—remained propped against the outer wall, present but silent, much like its master.

Lucius approached the bench, wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve. He stopped a few paces away, standing tall in the garden's soft lanternlight, shadows gently pooling around his feet.

"I've finished the garden, sir," he said simply. Rartar didn't shift at first. Then, after a pause, his head tilted just slightly.

"So you're not a morning person," he said, voice deep and smooth, the kind that rumbled in the chest more than it echoed in the air. "Unlike myself and Sia." Lucius allowed a faint breath of amusement to slip past his lips. "No, sir. I work better under moonlight."

There was a brief, shared stillness. Then Lucius's expression hardened—not with defiance, but with the weight of something long buried now demanding to rise. "Sir… we have to talk."

There was no hesitation in his tone, no edge of doubt. The words landed with precision, sharpened by days—weeks—of reflection. He had waited for this moment, not because he was uncertain, but because he wanted it to matter.

Rartar shifted, straightening slightly on the bench, the fruit bowl forgotten. He crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest, brows lifting in curiosity, though not in surprise.

"You sound like an old man," he said after a moment, his lips twitching upward at the corner. "Then again, you're far too composed for your age." Lucius didn't respond to the comment. Not with words.

"Yes," Rartar added, the smile fading, his tone settling into something more serious, more grounded. "We do need to have a proper conversation."

The stillness of the courtyard grew heavier, not with tension, but with expectation. "I'll start," Rartar continued. "One question. One only."

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees as his gaze locked fully onto Lucius. "What is it you want? What is it you truly desire?"

His voice didn't rise. There was no drama, no grandeur. But the weight of the question settled over the boy like armour—thick, pressing, cold at the edges.

"And before you answer, I want you to understand something," Rartar added, letting the silence sit for a moment longer. "This is not a ceremonial exchange. Your answer, right here, right now, will shape how I treat you going forward. I want you to think, before you speak."

Lucius did not falter. In fact, he already knew what he would say.

"I don't need more time," he said softly, stepping forward. "I've thought about this every day since I arrived."

The night wind stirred faintly, rustling the leaves behind him. Lucius let the sound carry his pause, and when he spoke again, his voice had deepened—still young, but heavy with something older than his years.

"Ever since I stepped into this home, I've known that I wasn't meant to stay as a guest. Either I was temporary… or I was family." He met Rartar's gaze fully now, not with bravado, but with the raw, unflinching gaze of someone who had nothing to hide.

"My mentor—Sia—chose me. She trained me. She trusted me. She took me in when I had nothing but a name I barely believed in. I am her one and only disciple. She has already made her choice. Now, I have to earn yours." Rartar's expression didn't shift. He didn't nod. He didn't frown. He simply listened.

"You asked what I want," Lucius continued, voice now stronger, steadier, sharpened by memory and conviction. "I want to earn the right to stay. I want to prove that I belong here, not just under this roof, but as part of what this home stands for. What you both built."

He took another breath, this one slower, deeper. "I have no parents. No siblings. No memories. No roots. Nothing tethering me to this world except the person who found me." His fists clenched—not from anxiety, but from clarity.

"And when I saw her that day, when she fought that beast, when she put herself between death and her comrades, I didn't just admire her. I revered her. It was… legend made real."

He swallowed, the memory still vivid—the scent of blood and mana, the air thick with heat, Sia's silhouette burning like a phoenix in the snow-laced fog.

"I'm eight now. When I turn twelve, I'll join the Adventurers' Guild. I'll step into the Beast Rims, just like every other novice… but unlike them, I won't be chasing coin or glory. I'll be chasing strength. Enough to protect what matters. Enough to guard the bonds I've yet to form. Enough to protect her." Rartar still didn't speak. But something shifted in his eyes.

Lucius pressed forward.

"My true goal?" he asked, the words quieter now, but not hesitant. "To become the strongest version of myself. The best version. No matter the cost. No matter what it takes." There was silence then—deep and encompassing. The wind had paused. The trees were still. The entire region felt as if it were holding its breath, then Rartar rose.

He didn't do so with force or sound. He simply stood, and somehow, the air changed around him. Lucius had thought of him as a mountain before, but now, standing tall beneath the moonlight, with the faint glint of battle-earned scars etched across his exposed arms, Rartar Machangel looked like a force of nature.

"This will only happen," he said finally, voice quiet but iron-hard, "if I accept you." Lucius didn't break eye contact. He'd anticipated this.

Rartar's next words came slower, colder. "And what will you do… if I don't?"

He took a single step forward. Not aggressive—but meaningful. "My wife," he said, "may feel obligated to take you in. But I do not harbour such feelings. Not yet." The words landed with weight, and still, Lucius didn't flinch.

"If that happens," he replied, his voice softer now, but unwavering, "then I'll accept it." He drew himself taller, not with pride, but with dignity. "After all, I am not your blood." The admission didn't shake him.

"But," he continued, "that won't change my resolve. Whether you bless my presence here or not, my path remains the same. I will become stronger. I will become someone worthy of standing beside her."

His hands trembled slightly now, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of keeping everything inside contained.

"And my promise, sir, is this: I will protect her. Even if it's from the shadows. Even if you send me away. Even if she forgets me. I will protect her."

Silence lingered—unflinching, unmoving—until something subtle shifted in Rartar's posture. He didn't speak, didn't nod, but the edge of his mouth curled ever so slightly, forming a smile that was neither warm nor soft, yet undeniably real. It carried with it a quiet recognition, a hint of approval—perhaps even respect.

Lucius remained where he stood, his chest rising and falling, every muscle drawn tight with restraint, every thought sharpened and channelled into this single moment. And though no words were exchanged, something passed between them—something weighty and unspoken. Not a conclusion, but a new beginning.